Upward lifting forces are the driving survival, a thrust for the air
and with it comes a raking across the subtle side of bones
and what drones inside wakes instead a jaw locking breech.
But below, where the cold sleeps scale side flicking through
basket pattern breathing aparatti, comes not one sound but
many. If the whispering masses cut short in their cement shoes
could shout everything all at once: silence is the loudest kind of sound.
From beneath, wrapped like the mischevious in darkess, were it only
for ears tuned to the pitch appropriate or eyes focused accurately
in spite of survival, a clatter might meet a breath-broken secretkeeper:
There where the sun claps quietly upon itself. There where coins pickle
peculiar in sailor-bed rust. There. Hush. It’s beginning.